Nature
Monday, July 7th, 2025: 2025 Trips, Nature, Regions, Road Trips, Rocks, Sky Islands.
Two months ago I visited this national monument to hike. Today I came just to drive around and look, and hopefully find someplace in the shade to string my hammock. Our monsoon started early, a couple of weeks ago, but as the old timers predict, a monsoon that starts early is likely to fizzle out. So we’re back to scattered, teasing clouds and hot days.
The high was forecast to be 90 at home, and the monument ranges from nearly a thousand feet lower to nearly a thousand feet higher. In my experience, public lands include lots of informal places to pull off the road and hang out, and the official map shows three picnic areas at the monument’s highest elevations, where I would surely find trees and shade.
The paved highway to the monument sees only sparse traffic, is laid out like a rollercoaster, and is minimally maintained, so that if you drive at the posted speed limit of 65 mph, you’re likely to be pitched off violently by one of many crudely patched potholes. Fine with me – helps to keep the riffraff out of this beautiful landscape.
As before, the gatehouse at the monument’s entrance was unoccupied, so admission was free. This is one of the smaller holdings in the National Park Service empire, encompassing two short canyons lined with a bewildering, seemingly infinite profusion of rock cliffs and towers. From the old stone Visitor Center at the confluence of the canyons, the narrow paved road leads up the northern canyon under some of the most spectacular rock formations on earth.
Surprisingly, there are only three or four widely-separated turnoffs, each is only big enough for one vehicle, and all are overhung by sycamores or Arizona cypress, so none of them offers a view of the rock formations. But I did enjoy the familiar dark, somber quality of dense, pure cypress stands in the upper canyon.
After less than three miles of this, the road suddenly crosses into the next watershed, and begins climbing to the crest through an old, high-intensity burn scar with expansive views east – which you can’t really enjoy because there’s a sheer drop-off and no places to pull off the road.
And suddenly you’re at the monument’s 6,900-foot crest – which itself tops out 3,000 feet below the crest of the range, which you can barely glimpse, five miles away to the south. From here, a small network of crest roads leads to the three picnic areas. Each features a single picnic table, surrounded by parking for up to twenty vehicles. Strange.
There are wind-stunted trees, but virtually no level ground. No one was using the single picnic tables, but I could find no secluded place to string my hammock. I stopped first at the famous canyon overlook, but there were no immediate views – you had to hike down a trail. People would drive up, park, get out, glance around in frustration, get back in, and drive away.
Wearing my knee immobilizer, I carefully lowered myself down a series of rock ledges to get a view over the big southern canyon and its maze of rock formations. It was even more pleasant up here than I’d expected – barely 80 degrees and breezy – and the clouds were glorious. That plus the relative solitude made up for the monumental effort of clambering around with one leg rigid.
From there, I drove to the other two picnic sites, both empty. Beautiful up here, and with elaborate hiking trails constructed with monumental effort by the long-lost Civilian Conservation Corps. Trails that were empty on this summer weekend. And no place for me to hang out.
As I drove back down the northern canyon, passing no other traffic, I realized I’d seen only about a dozen visiting vehicles during the two hours I’d been inside the monument. Sure, it was a hot summer day – peak season is probably spring and fall. But even stranger, I’d seen no park staff – not even a single official vehicle. Everything within the monument boundaries was spotlessly clean and well-maintained – where was the staff on this weekend day?
A now-unfathomable level of effort was put into building recreational facilities here, nearly a century ago. It remains a spectacular place for short hikes on high-traffic trails, if that’s your thing. But it’s no place for a picnic, and there’s only one small campground in the canyon bottom. Maybe the lack of places to hang out reduces the need for staffing and maintenance.
On the drive back to town, clouds all over the landscape were trying to become storms, and mostly failing. I did get a few drops on the windshield once.
Sunday, July 13th, 2025: 2025 Trips, Gila, Nature, Regions, Road Trips, Wildfire.
So far, our monsoon has brought more lightning than rain – starting new fires, including a big one at the north edge of the wilderness.
I wanted to explore the little-known mountain range, a couple hours north, that I’ve become obsessed with. But the smoke from the fire, blowing west, monopolized my attention on the way up.
By the time I’d finished lunch in the village, the northern sky was darkened by a storm cloud.
At the turnoff in the high pass, I checked my tire pressure and found that warm weather had added ten pounds, so I deflated them to 18 psi for the drive up the rocky road to the forested crest. That made the ride much more pleasant.
At the crest, there’s a fork leading west across the mesa. Since it’s forested, I’d never been able to visualize the landscape, which ranges between 8,200 and 8,700 feet elevation. The topo map showed something called “Dave Lee Lake” just off the road, less than a half mile from the junction. But I’d checked the satellite view at home, and the “lake” appeared to be a typically-dry stock pond.
The storm clouds alternating with patches of blue sky turned this forested mesa into a dreamlike landscape. The high was forecast to reach 90 at 6,000 feet, but here, almost 3,000 feet higher, it was in the 70s. And as on previous visits, I had this small mountain range all to myself.
The road began to climb, as I kept watching for the lake to my left. There appeared to be an opening in the trees down there, so I turned back and followed a meandering track through the forest, past several empty campsites, until a broad meadow appeared ahead, blocked by a fallen tree trunk. The lake turned out to be a natural alpine meadow – one of many on the crest of this range – which would’ve originally featured a vernal pool, but had been dammed at some point to create a stock pond.
Despite the low dam and dry pond lined with cracked mud, it was a magical place, especially under those brooding clouds. I couldn’t believe I had it to myself on a weekend afternoon, only a couple miles off the highway.
I could’ve hung out there, but I’d only scratched the surface of this mesa and wanted to follow the road farther west. Many of the trees bore red blazes or ribbons, apparently part of a Forest Service survey, but other than that, I saw no traces of other visitors. The farther I went, the more tracks I found branching off into the forest. The north slope was dark and dense with Douglas fir. I followed what seemed to be the main track for a couple miles, driving down, up, and around, glimpsing what appeared to be a vast canyon off to the west. I still couldn’t get a sense of the landscape, but these branching, meandering forest tracks could become really confusing. The tracks became rougher and rougher, with deep pools of muddy water I preferred to bypass, and eventually I turned back.
On the north slope among the firs, I’d passed a turnoff to what I assumed was more empty campsites. But when I returned and tried it, I found another track, overgrown and seemingly abandoned, leading steeply down through the forest. I drove down it, and eventually came out in a saddle. From there, the road climbed steeply up onto a ridge, but there were big boulders embedded in the slope, so I stopped and got out to lurch up there in my knee brace and scout the way forward. The track clearly continued out the ridge, but my time was running out. I decided to return to the turnoff and hang out there in the shade.
I strung my hammock between a couple of firs and laid there listening to the wind in the trees – the only sound up here on this mesa, 45 minutes from the nearest human settlement, an hour from the nearest town, four hours from the nearest city. The wind pushes into the forest, the trees dance with the wind.
It took me more than fifteen years to discover this place, two hours from my home. Despite the old dam, I’d seen no sign of cattle anywhere on the mesa. Old topo maps show that despite the maze of forest tracks, most of the mesa is roadless, including the entire western half leading down to the river. There are no hiking trails, but in the parklike forest, devoid of undergrowth, you could hike all over without running into any sign of human life.
Along the forest road and backcountry tracks, there are dozens of beautiful, secluded campsites with fire rings, informal and unmarked. But in a half dozen trips over the past few years, I’ve never seen anyone camping here. It’s like a dream come true, but there are dangers – trees often fall across these forest roads and tracks, so it’s possible to get blocked or even trapped.
From the drive back, I could see it was raining over our high mountains, and presumably over the big wildfire. But I only got a few drops along the way.
Sunday, August 10th, 2025: 2025 Trips, Nature, Plants, Regions, Road Trips, Sky Islands.
Our heat wave was forecast to taper off in a few days, with the monsoon clouds returning. And doc says I can start doing short hikes, also in a few days.
But meanwhile, I needed a Sunday road trip, and the area that intrigued me the most is low elevation and was likely to be pushing 100 degrees.
I studied the maps over and over, and finally realized that at the west end of that area, there’s a 6,500 foot peak with a road traversing it. I’d never considered exploring it because the top is covered with communications towers, and I hate towers on mountaintops. But it’s also surrounded by spectacular desert terrain and other mountains and buttes with colorful rocks, and the vegetation around there is a delightful mix of Sonoran and Mojave genera, so why not give it a shot?
After crossing the mountains south of town, I discovered the vast southern plains were blanketed with a mysterious, low-lying haze. It wasn’t windy, so I wondered if it might be humidity.
Then when I turned north, I was surprised to see some monsoon activity far ahead. I drove through the Mormon farming village, crossed our iconic river (muddy and barely visible amid its broad, dense canopy), and enjoyed an interval of rain before reaching the alluvial mesas and the turnoff for the “backcountry byway”.
Backcountry byways are dirt and gravel roads graded and maintained for recreation on BLM land. The map shows that this one crosses the iconic river, way the hell in the middle of nowhere as it makes its big bend west, so that was something else to look forward to.
The monsoon clouds spreading from the north were intermittently cooling off the air, enhancing the landscape, and making photography a challenge in their shadows. I had a great view of the mountain with the towers, which I’d never identified before.
After less than a mile on the byway, I pulled over to deflate my tires. Regular cars use this road, but regular cars have soft suspensions.
At the river, I could hear folks making noise down in the picnic area, but couldn’t see them for the trees. Despite the humongous copper mine to the north, this landscape is pretty miraculous, with a legendary river hidden in a narrow canyon in the midst of harsh and colorful desert.
Past the river, the road gets rougher and cuts back into a long valley toward the foot of the mountain. I came upon a big late-model pickup driving less than 10 mph on a straight, wide, recently-graded stretch. I followed them for almost a mile as they continued to drive in the middle of the road, blocking me. Finally we came to a wide enough spot I could squeeze past them.
And at the head of the valley, the road gets narrower and begins climbing the shoulder of a long outlying ridge.
When the road crested the shoulder, I stopped to check my map, and discovered that the road to the summit starts here. Communications tower access roads are notoriously poorly maintained, and I had to shift into low range 4wd just to get up the turnoff.
This road, accessing the summit from the northwest, climbs over a thousand feet in two miles, so the views northeast are pretty spectacular. But it’s also very narrow, rocky, and steep, so I had to pay close attention. There are no wide spots, so I kept wondering what I would do if I encountered another vehicle.
I considered that unlikely, but just as I came to the only wide spot before the crest, I saw a side-by-side heading down toward me. What are the chances? And what would we have done if we’d encountered each other a few minutes earlier or later?
Fortunately, they said there was no one behind them.
When I reached the crest, I got a view to the southwest. But the road became even rougher. I began to realize this was probably the gnarliest road I’d ever driven – but after driving that road to the crest of our eastern range a couple weeks ago, I was fairly calm. Guess I’m getting used to this.
I stopped in the saddle below the summit, at nearly 6,400 feet. The temperature was perfect, with a little breeze, and I had a snack – with many stops for photos, it’d taken me almost an hour to drive the two miles, and I was very late for lunch.
Here, as on the lower slopes, I found widespread tree mortality, presumably from our long, severe drought. But I also saw some happy seedlings of both pinyon pine and juniper, so all is not lost. And cliff swallows constantly swooped past me.
I had no interest in driving to the top, with its forest of towers, and this narrow, rocky ridge was no place to linger.
The road south brought me into the head of a canyon which was very dark under the spreading thunderhead. I’d wondered if the southeast road might be better than the northwest one, but now I discovered it’s much worse – lined with sharp rocks, ledges, and deep ruts. But after a few rains, it’s also lined with very pretty flowers.
It traverses down another long ridge, and from what I could see of the next stretch of road far below, it seemed like an easier surface.
My view from above turned out to be an illusion. This descent was lined with volcanic cobbles literally from top to bottom. In the past I would’ve been a nervous wreck, but the flowers were so good I took it all in stride.
It had taken me two hours to drive five miles. This end of the road connects with an unlikely highway, a high-speed thoroughfare in the middle of nowhere that connects the giant mine with the city that supplies it, far away in the big river valley. That was my route back to the farming village, where I slowly carved my way through a very late lunch of lemonade, chips and salsa, and red enchiladas.
And after that, an hour-long drive home – discovering on the approach to our southern mountains that the haze was indeed due to wind. A wind so strong it slowed me down on the plain and tried to push me off the highway in the mountains. But those clouds had really cooled off our heat wave!
Saturday, August 30th, 2025: Hikes, Nature, Pinos Altos Range, Rocks, Southwest New Mexico.
This one’s for my mom. Just a stroll through a nearby canyon that’s normally one of our wettest places year-round, but is now bone dry, late in monsoon season.
Monday, September 1st, 2025: Hikes, Mineral, Nature, Rocks, Southwest New Mexico.
I invited my neighbor along for this short hike in one of our most spectacular canyons. We seem to be entering another active phase of our Southwest monsoon, and impressive clouds were spreading over the high mountains as we drove north. But the creek, normally running, was mostly dry.
I only went about a mile up canyon, and by the time I was halfway back the sky was pretty threatening. We both welcomed the rain, but this narrow stretch of canyon wouldn’t offer many escape routes during a flash flood.
The rain hit as we walked from the vehicle to the cafe for lunch, and continued steady all the way home – one of our best rains this season.
